“SO FAR, SO good,” Ed muttered to himself. Isabel was enjoying her last night up at her shack and Davey was at home in Bridgehampton with George and the housekeeper. Ed was overnighting at the Magiston Resort and had his head resting against the pillows before dinner, after a strenuous round of tennis on the indoor courts. He was here for his reunion of Loane’s Rangers, his old unit, together with the usual hand-picked ring-ins. Every two years he hosted his buddies at the historic Magiston for a quiet dinner. No spouses or partners. Ed was devoted to his Rangers, many of them having earned a spot working in the sprawl of his corporate empire, or somewhere else on his team.
In pride of place in the centre of the grand table, always, would be the shot of Loane’s Rangers taken twenty-five years before: Ed flanked by ten men in camouflage flight suits, one of whom was cradling his baby girl swaddled in a matching camy blanket. Mel Abbott had fought with Ed in ’Nam but died rappelling in the Rockies in the early 1990s. His daughter was Niki, and Ed and the Rangers had virtually adopted her when Mel died.
At college, her tuition paid for by Ed, Niki had signed up for the Air Force Reserve Officer Training Corps program. Even as a kid she’d imagined herself as a pilot, unlike her dad; his passion had been fast cars and he’d even named her after Niki Lauda, the Formula One Grand Prix winner. What Niki loved most about flying was the exhilaration of calculated risk-taking, which didn’t exactly make her a great fit for the disciplined life of the military.
However, it was her knack of capturing in her photographs that same sense of living on the edge that made them so sought-after. After ROTC, she’d trained as an Air Force pilot and, despite her notoriety for breaking the rules, she attained the rank of captain. It was ultimately because of that reputation that she was frog-marched out of the service and pushed herself into full-time camera work, well, mostly full-time, as her Loane’s Rangers colleagues knew.
It was set to be a long night with much to celebrate, so Ed had taken an early nap. He bent sideways to check the hotel’s bedside clock. It was around seven, half-an-hour before cocktails. He lay back on his pillow and imagined Isabel, extinguishing the shack’s lanterns, her own head hitting the pillow just as his was getting up.
“Sleep well,” he whispered.
Niki’s soft blue eyes fluttered open and she brushed aside a strand of her red hair. “Wha…?”
61
IN AROMATHERAPY, BLACK spruce is used to suppress anxiety, but it couldn’t help Isabel. She sensed a presence, and froze. Not a wisp of breath escaped her as her ears strained… At first, she heard nothing but the wind, until she detected the low rumble coming at her from beyond the trees.
She slid the tip of her hiking pole into the snow and, as quietly as possible, unbuckled her pack at the waist and let her shoulders and arms slip it slowly to the ground, her right arm causing her to wince, though only a little. Her fingers closed around the knife handle sticking up from her belt pouch and, like a reed in a breeze, she twisted around for the empty water bottle in the side mesh pocket of her backpack, gripped its neck and yanked it out.
She waited.
A flash of moonlight flared over near the stand of trees the growl was coming from. In the glow, an animal’s snout began to make itself out. It was white. Abruptly, a pair of low luminous eyes blazed at her. Despite the tremble of panic, she calculated that they were too close to the ground… This was not a bear, it was something much smaller. And yet it was bigger than a snowshoe hare.
Instinct took over. She flicked on her flashlight and aimed it directly at the yellow-green eyes, praying the beam would startle whatever it was and make it scamper off.
Her torch lit up a wolf, and she almost dropped it in fright. Her heart was pounding as though she had already made a run for it, which her thrashing mind was telling her to do.
The beast defied the light, refusing to back off. It wouldn’t avert its eyes. They were riveted on her, staring her down, sizing her up. She could feel them gazing up and down her body, like the sum-total of all those sleazy eyes she’d had to endure over those years waiting tables, but far worse.
Her blood ran cold, and she clamped her jaw till it ached as she tried to still even her slightest movement.
The wolf’s sharp, bared teeth flashed the beam back at her as a thick string of saliva drew its way down from its muzzle to the ground.
Isabel was prey. She was sure of it. The assurance that no adult had ever been killed in North America by a wild wolf was looking scratchy.
She met its gaze halfway along her beam, and noticed a strange dark stain spreading out from under one of its front paws. In this poor, exaggerated light, the animal’s paw seemed to be bulging. She moved her beam, just a little. It was blood. Her whole body shook, remembering that the advice had actually been that no healthy wild wolf had killed an adult.
ANDY Goodman’s ears were assaulted by an unrelenting banging on the toilet door.
“You okay in there?” the barman shouted as he kept pounding. “Andy! You okay?”
“Hmm…? Yeah, I’m fine. Be out in a minute. Musta fallen asleep.” It wasn’t because of the booze; he’d only had four drinks the last couple of hours due to Brad knowing Andy liked to push it, but he’d started his ranger’s rounds early that day, around six, and this was as good a spot for a bit of shut-eye as anywhere else.